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He had tripped upon the slopes of precipices, and had recovered himself;
he had stumbled into holes, and had got out again. Thenceforward the
slightest fall would be death; a false step opened for him a tomb. He
must not slip. He had not strength to rise even to his knees. Now
everything was slippery; everywhere there was rime and frozen snow. The
little creature whom he carried made his progress fearfully difficult.
She was not only a burden, which his weariness and exhaustion made
excessive, but was also an embarrassment. She occupied both his arms,
and to him who walks over ice both arms are a natural and necessary
balancing power.
He was obliged to do without this balance.
He did without it and advanced, bending under his burden, not knowing
what would become of him.
This little infant was the drop causing the cup of distress to overflow.
He advanced, reeling at every step, as if on a spring board, and
accomplishing, without spectators, miracles of equilibrium. Let us
repeat that he was, perhaps, followed on this path of pain by eyes
unsleeping in the distances of the shadows--the eyes of the mother and
the eyes of God. He staggered, slipped, recovered himself, took care of
the infant, and, gathering the jacket about her, he covered up her head;
staggered again, advanced, slipped, then drew himself up. The cowardly
wind drove against him. Apparently, he made much more way than was
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